


You Burn With Us

by chasing_givenchy



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Conspiracy, F/M, M/M, Okay The Author Also Lied a Bit There, The Author Regrets Nothing, The Revolution Will Be Televised
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-05-07
Packaged: 2017-12-06 08:31:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/733633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chasing_givenchy/pseuds/chasing_givenchy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Éponine Thénardier became the face of a revolution that changed France forever. </p><p>In which: Enjolras attempts to overthrow the government from inside a coal mine, Combeferre is in love with Éponine on national television, Marius mentors Cosette even as he sends her into the arena, and Grantaire tries to stay sober and not watch them all die.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "You've been hunting, boy."

**Author's Note:**

> It is not necessary to have read the Hunger Games trilogy to follow or understand this story. This is an AU, not a crossover.
> 
>  
> 
> A nitpicky word about the terminology: Katniss Everdeen participates in the 74th Hunger Games, which has become the 43rd Games. This is refers to the implicit assumption that the French Revolution ended in failure in 1789, instead of successfully in 1799. The original trilogy refers to the country Panem, which comprises thirteen twelve Districts ruled by the Capitol. Enjolras isn't Enjolras if he isn't protecting France, so the necessary changes have been made.
> 
>  
> 
> Ridic amounts of ♥ ♥ ♥ and thanks to [fakeplasticlily](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fakeplasticlily), who enables nonsense, looked this over, and now has two more reasons to love Gale Hawthorne.

The Dark Days ended forty-three years ago, bringing with it the end of treason and freedom. The Revolution was quelled and France crumbled as burnt bricks fell, its political landscape changing until it shrunk and could be fitted into Napoleon Bonaparte's gloved fist. Out of the ashes arose the new country, now comprising twelve Quartiers, ruled by the Capitale. But even though the last barricade had fallen, the punishment for the revolution continues.

   A yearly reminder of the Capitol's power and the consequences of sedition were instituted in the form of the Hunger Games. Every year, each Quartier is forced to send two of its children as tributes to the Games. They are trapped in an arena, a phenomenally large enclosed space that replicates anything from deserts, jungles, wetlands to paradise. Twenty-four children must fight the dangers of the arena and of each other, because only one can survive. The victor alone goes home, his or her District lavishly rewarded, and each year the story begins again.

   The Games are not just an annual event; they are a _celebration_. And the year that Éponine Thénardier is sentenced to the arena from Quartier 12, is no different.

   Except in one regard.

*

The reaping ceremony is a source of delight and entertainment nowhere in France, except for the Capitale. Only there do people sit around television sets, hold hands, and squeal in delight or cluck in disapproval to see the kind of tributes that are chosen from each Quartier. The Capitale is insulated because _their_ children are never picked; for them, it is prime-time viewing.

   By the time the twelfth Quartier comes up on the screen, there are always unanimous sighs of boredom. Twelve is a town of starving coal miners, with a history of producing losers. Their last victor was a staggering drunk named Grantaire, usually good for a few laughs, and the Quartier's representative is a gigantic, grouchy woman whose catchphrase ("May the odds be _ever_ in your favour,") sounds less optimistic and more like a death threat.

   Needless to say, she tends to suck the fun out of these events.

 

"Ladies first," intones Mame Hucheloup with her typical mangled pronunciation, and fishes out a slip of paper from the glass bowl.

   The girl tribute is astonishingly lacklustre. She drips dirt and hunger from her clogged pores, and if she was ever beautiful, no one will know.

   Mame Hucheloup then thrusts her fist into the boys' bowl and calls out his name: "Gavroche Thénardier."

 

Éponine is sixteen and used to breaking the Capitale's laws. No one in their Quartier ever has enough to eat, though some can afford more than others. Those who grow fat on the misery of their social inferiors are her best customers, and she saves the fattest turkeys and softest rabbits for them.

   Her best friend, Enjolras, sees them more as a necessary evil to be tolerated. He views their weakness for good food as a weakness to be exploited. Like Éponine, Enjolras is not yet twenty and a better hunter than most grown men could be. Unlike Éponine who keeps her head down and her opinions to herself, his fury for the Capitale boils over into hatred. In the wilderness beyond the Quartier, where citizens are forbidden to hunt, Enjolras spends longs hours venting his feelings about their slave masters, drawing up ways to flout their authority. The horrifying part is that if he could tell his plans to someone else, _anyone_ , he would also find a way to bring them to fruition.

   But there is no one to tell. The walls have ears and tell the Capitale everything. Later, Éponine realises that even the woods were not safe. The Capitale knows she has been hunting game ever since she was twelve, and they punish her by sending her into the Hunger Games arena with one ultimatum: either kill your little brother, or force him to kill _you_.

 

Enjolras has no real family, and Éponine thinks she doesn't either, if it weren't for Gavroche. She remembers being petted by mother and loved by her father, before the mines and the permanent hardship of their lives ground their diamante love to coal dust again.

   "I can't lose him. Not to the reaping." She remembers telling Enjolras that one day, as they sit by the lake in the woods waiting for fish to catch on their baited hooks. "The odds can never not be in his favour."

   "They will be," he had replied quietly, as if that closed the matter. "The rules say that you can volunteer in place of a person whose name has been called. As long as I'm there, the odds will always be in his favour."

   She buried her face in the crook of his shoulder, and didn't care enough to be ashamed of her tears.

 

It is the worst-kept secret in Quartier 12 that Enjolras and Éponine are the ones who keep the black market well-stocked with meat. They are the only ones who would risk their lives to break the hunting laws, on behalf of everyone who can't afford to buy good meat. In return, no one rats them out, and their Head Peacekeeper (a paunchy lecherous old man) turns a blind eye and pays in fat coin.

   Enjolras knows he's only got a few minutes left before the reaping begins, but the game is heavy in the sack slung over his shoulder as he makes his way to the Head Peacekeeper's house. His boot taps impatiently on the ground as the Peacekeeper takes an unnaturally long time to answer. He thinks he should just come back later because after all, he can't be late to the reaping. (He has a promise to keep, and a boy he might need to save.) No, he cannot be late.  But it's too risky to take the full game bag back with him, and Enjolras is contemplating whom he can sell his haul to on such short notice, when the door finally flies open.

   And the man standing on the other side is neither paunchy nor lecherous-looking.

   "Who are you?" demands the stranger wearing the crisp uniform of a Peacekeeper, lapel decorated with the insignia of the Head.

   "No one," mutters Enjolras, turning away before the stranger can see his face. "I was expecting Musichetta; I clearly have the wrong address." He slings down the game bag, shielding the sight of it with his body, and tries to slip away.

   " _Wait_ ," growls the new Head Peacekeeper, and his hand is like a steel clamp on Enjolras's shoulder. "Open the bag."

   "I shouldn't, it's not mine, I found it on the road and I'm looking to give it to Lost and Found—"

   " _Open_. The. _Bag_ ," he says again, and it's suddenly ripped away from Enjolras's white-knuckled grip. The skinned carcass, ready for roasting, tumbles out on the street. "You've been hunting, boy," says the voice beside Enjolras's ear, heavy and hot like the breath of a wild bear, and then the butt of a Peacekeeper's whip slams into Enjolras's left temple and he tastes blood and grime in his mouth.

 

"Gavroche Thénardier."

   He stands straight like a bullet has caught him in the small of the back. People in the crowd are twisting back and forth, trying to see the boy tribute, but he's so small only the cameras have found him, beaming his image up on the screen. His face is blank and stony, and his gait stiff. Slowly, he begins to push his way through the crowd, but someone screams for him to stop.

   It's not Enjolras. Enjolras isn't even here. Éponine's gaze scours the crowd, but there is no one who will save him. The scream mounts, despair pitching. She barely realises that it's her, her voice breaking into a sob for him to stop. He doesn't.

   He just keeps on walking.

   And then the ground, for the tiniest second, stops shaking.

   "I volunteer for Gavroche Thénardier."

 

 _Ah_. Drama. A twist. Sentimentality. Slightly cliché, but better than nothing. At last, Quartier 12 stops being quite so boring. Courfeyrac leans forward in his seat, and turns up the volume on the television. He examines the volunteer tribute critically, knowing that they will come face to face on the night before the Games. It is Courfeyrac who interviews each tribute, and it's his job to make them look as good as they possibly can. Under his spotlight, they become personable, dynamic, _interesting_ ; all of these are crucial qualities, because people want to sponsor tributes based on their skill and persona. Boring tributes tend to die faster than the usual going rate.

   Courfeyrac already knows he'll have plenty of material to work with when the time comes to interview the Quartier 12 tributes. The boy is big and physically strong, but his face remains placid.

   "Ah, Combeferre," says Mame Hucheloup, visibly stunned. She recovers admirably onstage. "Ladies and gentlemen, let me present to your tributes."

   No one applauds.


	2. "May my odds be ever in her favour."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valjean receives nasty news, Courfeyrac watches a lot of TV, and a conspiracy is set into motion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ♥ ♥ ♥ to [fakeplasticlily](archiveofourown.org/users/fakeplasticlily) who looked this over via the PHONE because she didn't have a computer at the time. You can't buy that kind of love, folks ;)

The Hunger Games arena is an intricately designed chessboard: one where the squares change colours, hidden traps spring up, and the board opens to swallow the pieces whole. And the Gamemakers are the masters. They are the ones who control the game and keep things fresh and exciting. Never a dull moment on their watch! As far as the masses at the Capitale are concerned, the Gamemakers are right below the royalty.

   Gamemakers are rarely on national television. They sit behind the curtain and take their bow right at the end of the show. Being the brains behind excellent entertainment doesn't necessarily make _them_ entertaining. In fact, some of them are downright boring, and it's painful to encounter them at parties. There is, however, one Gamemaker who has suddenly captured the fascination of the Capitale, and his name is Jean Valjean.

 

This Valjean has a secret, but no one knows what it is. He is respectable, upstanding, well-mannered, and completely forgettable. None of these are qualities that Gamemakers possess, but rumour has it that Valjean once got on the wrong side of the law, ended up in the labyrinth of sewers below the Capitale, and came out unscathed after fourteen days of no food and scant water. He is a _survivor_ , and that is the kind of brain that can be used to design an interesting Games arena.

   Valjean's family is a strange one. He has no wife, no mistress, no girlfriend, but he is rumoured to have been fond of a girl from Quartier 4, who died leaving a daughter. The daughter was adopted by her uncle, a gardener named Fauchelevent, and Valjean visits them often and sends them so much money every month that one would think the daughter was his own, after all.

   And that is why there is stunned silence when, for the first time in forty-three years, a Capitale child's name is drawn. And Cosette is reaped.

 

It is a bright blue day in the seaside Quartier 4, and the sun is merciless and the sea is roiling. It is balmy over the open waters, and Marius Pontmercy would have sold his grandfather's soul to be able to go fishing. Out there, it is calm and danger is familiar. His father had been buried at sea, wrapped in a white blanket and set adrift on a quiet boat. Marius sometimes wishes he were dead because death is easier than living, and he doesn't mind being a coward that way.

   The reaping is a yearly horror: it has plagued him since he was fourteen, and even now, clammy dread grips him. He waves to whoever catches his eye, forcing his body to relax. He makes sure to look right into the cameras that are televising the event live all over France, and smiles at them. That smile sends hearts aflutter throughout the Capitale among the old, the young, and the rich. That smile, broadcast live from the Hunger Games arena, had driven sponsors wild, and gifts, medicine, and weapons had come showering down on him. The other tributes never had a chance. Not when the Capitale wanted Marius Pontmercy to win.

   And so he had.

   He played their game, and won by their rules, and their rules trapped him forever: it is tradition that the past victors will mentor the tributes to come. Tributes come, and tributes die.

 

"Looking forward to meeting the tributes?" The question comes from the woman who conducts the reaping every year; she's Capitale's representative and she only leaves her home for this one occasion. Marius swallows the bile, and doesn't let his smile waver. "There's another Capitale connection in the crowd, you know."

   The Gamemaker Valjean's daughter. Of course he knew. "May my odds be ever in her favour," he says, white teeth flashing, and she grins, knowing she's gotten a great soundbite.

 

The instant it happens, Valjean _knows_. The phones go mad, shrilling and ringing, but he's dead to the sound. His stare is glued to the screen. Somehow, it feels like this is a message; that he is somehow meant to see this. Gillenormand has done this, Valjean knows that much, but if only he understood _why_.

   Forty-three years have gone by, leaving the immunity of the Capitale unchallenged. It is the Quartiers who must be punished, the Capitale are their rulers. The children of the Capitale will be spared because _they_ are the innocent ones. Valjean watches the reaping in Quartier 4, sick.

   "Cosette Fauchelevent."

   There are gasps, flinches, open-mouthed looks of shocked disbelief. For the first time, the camera stops focusing so much on the Quartier's most famous victor (Marius, blanched and horrified) and zooms right in on the tribute. The blonde girl steps up to the stage, face wiped clean of emotion. She stands quietly and waits for the boy's name to be called.

   It takes the Quartier's representative a full minute to remember that another name must be drawn. During the longest minute of anyone's lives, no one volunteers to save her. The camera never stops flickering back to Cosette, never giving her a moment's privacy to cry.

*

The day whirls past Éponine in a blur. Everything happens so fast, permanently tinted with that lingering sense of unreality, and it's difficult to understand what is going on. She remembers the hurried goodbyes with her family: her mother staring appraisingly at her, her father murmuring that she has it in her to win (he's probably imagining the wealth that comes to the victor's family), and Gavroche just holds her hand so tight that it hurts her bones. Enjolras doesn't come to say goodbye, and that settles in the pit of her stomach. He would never abandon her like this— _never_. And then she remembers that the Capitale wants to punish her for defying them, and remembers that Enjolras is an illegal hunter too.

   Her only other visitor is the Mayor's son, a boy she sometimes sat with in silence at school. Joly doesn't say much now either, but quietly unclips a pin from his collar and fastens it over her heart. "It was my aunt's," he tells her. "She was a tribute the year Grantaire won the Hunger Games."

   Éponine stares down at the strange pin: a gold circle that barely manages to enclose a mockingjay bird with an arrow clasped in its beak. The birds wings are outstretched, poised on the brink of flight. She remains silent with inarticulate gratitude, but Joly understands. Her clasps her hands once before he leaves, and waits until he's out of sight to wipe off the residual coal dust.

 

The train flies over the rails, shooting past the Quartiers as it heads inexorably, unstoppably towards the Capitale, wherein the arena waits. Food is served to them: big, steaming platters of fresh, hot, bountiful lamb stew, bread rolls, some sort of vegetable delight. But Éponine still hasn't exchanged two words with Combeferre, the other tribute who's only here because he replaced her brother.

   She feels like she should say something. She _must_ say something. The words have been sucked dry out of her. She doesn't like the idea of owing Combeferre.

   Instead, she transfers her attention to their mentor, Grantaire, who pulls long swigs from his bottle of mysterious white liquor and stares at the view.

   "Hey," she says at last, a little snappishly, when the silence gets too ungrateful. "If you're our mentor, shouldn't you be giving us advice on how to… do this?"

   Grantaire lowers the bottle for a second, peering at her over the rim. He sizes her up sceptically, glances at Combeferre, and takes an even longer swig. "Here's some advice: stay alive."

   The butter knife quivers and twitches, embedded into the compartment wall, an inch beside Grantaire's ear. Éponine's chest is heaving with fury, and Combeferre looks at his lap to conceal a smile.

   "Sorry," she says, sounding genuinely mortified. "I didn't mean to miss."

 

Combeferre stands in the half-open doorway of her compartment, watching her she just sits, frozen on the bed.

   "Hi," he says quietly.

   She looks up. He sees those dark eyes, framed by that face he hasn't forgotten since he was twelve. He wonders if she remembers, though: the boy who nicked bread from the bakery's bin, narrowly not escaping his mother's wrath for throwing bread to a beggar's child.

   "No," she says. "Leave me be."

   He withdraws, drawing the door closed after him.

*

The party is in full swing, but for the first time, Courfeyrac isn't enjoying it. This is a neat break from tradition: an invitation to the Head Gamemaker's house to watch the reapings being telecast over and over again on screens all over his palatial house in the Capitale. The city's élite are all here, but it feels ghoulish and unnecessary. All the same, Courfeyrac sits alone in one of the recreation rooms, forcing a drink down his throat as he re-watches each reaping ceremony with grim fascination.

   Courfeyrac doesn't like his host very much, but he can't deny that the man has a flair for the dramatic. It had taken Gillenormand a long time to ascend to his current position of Head Gamemaker: his reputation had been destroyed when his only grandson absconded from the Capitale to go live in a Quartier. But when Marius Pontmercy was reaped at the age of fourteen, did the rest of France realise what the Capitale had known all along: no one deserved the promotion the way Gillenormand did.

   "Ah. Courfeyrac. You're still here?"

   "Where else?" he rasps, finally turning away from the screen. Noticing the lithe form silhouetted in the doorway, he plasters on a smile. Mustn't disappoint the cameras, mustn't disappoint his friends. "Jehan. Excellent to see you. Some wine?"

   _Excellent_ should have been _surprised_. Jehan is the stylist for the Quartier 1 tributes, and while he's damnably good at his job, he doesn't classify as society's upper crust. Courfeyrac's surprise doesn't show, and Jehan holds up his unfinished glass in reply, shaking his head. "No, thank you. Interesting turn of events this year, isn't it?"

   Courfeyrac laughs, tossing his eclectically dyed hair (necessarily in keeping with the latest Capitale trend) and smiles for real. The whole room lights up. "There'll be so much to talk about when it's time for the interviews. Between Cosette Fauchelevent and that pair from Quartier 12, I'll be damned if their mentors aren't physically fighting off all the sponsors."

   "It'll be a waste of money. None of those three look like they'll last very long in the arena." Jehan's tone belies his true feelings on the subject, but it's his damn fault for ever getting attached to any of the tributes who pass through him.

   "They probably won't," agrees Courfeyrac airily. "Cosette looks like she hasn't done a hard day's work in her life, that Quartier 12 girl is a slip of a thing, and that boy looks like he could throw around a few tables, but he'll be no match for the others. Better Quartiers train their children to be tributes. Twelve has never stood a chance."

   "Except Grantaire," Jehan reminds him softly. "He won his Games."

   Courfeyrac shrugs. "That was a long time ago. Since then, he's nothing but a filthy drunk, and he makes for poor mentor. All he's good for anymore is sending those children he grew up with, to die."

   "Grantaire was your friend," Jehan reminds him again, this time with a hint of reproach. "And mine."

   "He drinks too much."

   "I applied for a transfer," said Jehan like a non-sequitur. "I'm no longer the stylist for the Quartier 1 tributes, I've been moved to Twelve."

   "Good luck dressing those teenagers up as sacks of coal and fancy-dress miners, then," snorts Courfeyrac, meaning _good luck watching them die without a hope_.

   "It's no different from what you do," says Jehan, and Courferac's smile shifts into a scowl. He looks at Jehan, _really_ looks at him for the first time, and the gold eyeliner slightly smudged over those dark lids looks like the embers of a slowly stoked fire.

*

"Who are you?" demands the Head Peacekeeper. The contents of the game bag are on the floor, and if he's not careful, the flies will comes soon. His house is Spartan and purely military, and the callused hand curled around the butt of his whip shines white with scars. Enjolras, tied to a post in the middle of the room, doesn't bother to lie.

   "Doesn't matter. Use that whip, I don't care. I've broken your law, now mete your justice." Sarcasm drips from every word, but strangely, there is no fear. "After all, that's why the Capitale sent you here, didn't they? They were tired of Twelve showing mercy to lawbreakers."

   The Peacekeeper fingers his whip absently. "With that much illegal meat in the bag, the punishment isn't the lash, you stupid boy. It's death."

   His teeth flash white and his chin juts. "So kill me. You're their dog. Do their bidding."

   The Peacekeeper's mouth tightens. "And give you a merciful release? I've heard far too much about your hatred for the Capitale to let you off that easy."

   Enjolras feels the chill run through his bones. He's not afraid of dying; he would die for freedom, feeding the hungry. But the Capitale doesn't believe in death; their motto is to torture you until your humanity bleeds out through every open gash in your body, and even then you cannot die.

   "Who are _you_?" he says, refusing to be afraid of his devil, but being human all the same.

   "My name is Javert."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Next week** (within the next ten days D: I promise):
> 
> The tributes start on a propaganda trip, Enjolras heads for the Capitale, and Grantaire and Eponine face off.
> 
> _"Those are my friends on that screen," says Enjolras coldly, sitting at the dining table. "And it was my friends who became mutilated corpses in the arena before. I will do whatever it takes to bring the Capitale to its knees."_
> 
> _Javert doesn't smile at the brave words. He sees death and destruction in this boy's eyes, and knows he has found himself a soldier and a killer._


	3. "Who's pretending, princess?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> France is introduced to the tributes of Quartier 12, the children who were set on fire. Cosette grabs the world's attention, and Grantaire tries to devise a scheme for Combeferre and Éponine to compete. Enjolras begins his journey to instigate chaos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys thought I was dead, didn't you?
> 
> I am all apologies for how long it took to post this chapter, but real life, a disaster of exams, lack of Internet connectivity and an internship has intervened, but I promise the updates will even out and I will try my best to go back to a regular schedule.

The rarefied air at the Capitale is charged with excitement and intensity tonight. The sight of the trains pulling in from the Quartiers is constantly being broadcast, along with the highlights from the past years' Games. The opening ceremonies are about to start, and sponsors can't wait to get their first glimpse of this year's entertainment. Chariots bearing twelve pairs of tributes will roll through the streets, carrying them to the Training Centre, which will hold them until the Games begin.

   Speculation is rife about the costumes the children are wearing this time. It's tradition for each pair of tributes to wear something symbolic of their Quartier, and they've been assigned talented stylists who can pull off the magnificent. Well, except for Quartier 12 (they're usually embarrassments in their lumpy miners' outfits, except for that one time when they were naked and coated in coal dust. That would be the year Twelve hit rock bottom.) Quartier 1 keeps the Capitale furnished with luxury goods, so their tributes are dressed flawlessly in expensive fabric and glittering jewels. And of course, who can forget the Thirty-Fourth Games when Marius Pontmercy, of the seaside Quartier 4, rode past the Capitale like an ocean god, luxuriantly bare and draped in fishing nets?

   (The Capitale always has double standards for the beautiful and the personable.)

*

"So you want to start a revolution."

   Javert is sceptical even as he says that. He has never heard anything more stupid in his life, nor has he met someone quite so suicidal. Considering that he himself is in the middle of betraying the Capitale, this fool from the poorest Quartier has pulled off quite the achievement.

   "Those are my friends on that screen," says Enjolras coldly, sitting at the dining table. "And it was my friends who became mutilated corpses in the arena before. I will do whatever it takes to bring the Capitale to its knees."

   Javert doesn't smile at the brave words. He sees death and destruction in this boy's eyes, and knows he has found himself a soldier and a killer. "There's a train carrying Peacekeepers to the Capitale tonight. Make sure you're on it. On board, there will be a man with the crest of red hair, and if he's lucky, he can get you safely to where Grantaire is. He will be able to introduce you to those whom you can help. Do you understand?"

   "Get on the train, find the red-haired Peacekeeper, reach the drunk, follow orders." Enjolras tips it off with a mock-salute, even though his face remains serious. Javert is not amused, and does not wish the odds in his favour.

   This is too hazardous to entrust to luck.

 

Enjolras makes sure to leave Azelma enough rabbit to last her and her two brothers six months. He knows Musichetta will try to take care of them if anything bad should happen.

   He has no one to say goodbye to when he leaves Quartier 12 behind.

 

While the opening ceremony of the Games plays on the television, Javert's attention is turned to matters that are more important. As a Peacekeeper hand-selected and sent down from the Capitale itself, he has the only secure line in all of Quartier 12, which means that all his communications are recorded, but only those with the highest clearance can access those records.

   The call goes straight to the Training Centre. Grantaire is connected within seconds.

   At first glance, there is nothing suspicious about such a call between two high-ranking members of Quartier 12's society: the victor and the enforcer, the Peacekeeper and the drunk. "Tell Jean Prouvaire I found a lump of hot coal," says Javert, and he can hear Grantaire slowly coming to sobriety on the line.

   "Jehan says to tell you that he has found a symbol," says Grantaire, a smile curling into his voice.

*

Combeferre seeks out Éponine before the ceremonies begin, trussed up in a costume that their stylist, Jehan, thinks is "inspired." Clothes are the last thing on Combeferre's mind, even as he walks past the tributes from the agricultural Quartier 11. They are dressed like paddy. How the hell are they supposed to attract sponsors dressed like paddy?

   It's easy to find Éponine, who looks fidgety and self-conscious in her costume. Her face is pale, but grim, like she's determined not to let France see she's afraid. Something swells like pride inside Combeferre's chest, but before he can reach her, Jehan does.

 

"You're going to _what_?" gasps Éponine, when her stylist first tells her about her costume.

   "Set you on fire," explains Jehan calmly, and she shrinks away from him. She's let him dress her up like coal, which in his language means a perfectly-fitted black body suit and boots, accompanied by a headdress and a shredded cape of gold and orange to represent flames. _Represent_ should have been the key word.

   "It's not real fire," he amends quickly, noticing the panicked gleam in her eye. "It's just synthetic fire."

   Combeferre appears, being helped into the Quartier 12 chariot by the prep team. He's dressed near-identically to Éponine, and his alarm is palpable when he catches her eye. The silent resolution that forms between them is instantaneous: _I'll rip off your cape, if you rip off mine_.

   Jehan is oblivious to their consternation. "Éponine, the girl who was on fire," he sighs, and sends off their chariots.

 

Grantaire finds Jehan, watching his own handiwork on the screen above them. The camera unerringly picks up on the unusual pin Éponine is wearing over her costume, lingering unnecessarily on it. "You let her keep that token of hers," Grantaire muses, lowering his ubiquitous bottle.

   "It must remind her of home," says Jehan. "She's entitled to that much."

   "Hmm." The camera lingers on and on, and then it's forced to look away from the pin because something incredible has happened: the tributes' capes catch fire. The twilit evening blazes with the flames streaming down their capes, catching their faces in sharp relief. They look menacing and dangerous, hardly teenagers, with their grim smiles and tightly clasped hands.

   Grantaire is amused at the last one; it's a nice touch they've added.

   The crowd has gone wild, screaming their names, hollering love, throwing flowers; the sound of their names fills the sky.

   Maybe, for once, it's the others who must beware Quartier 12.

*

The night passes quietly. The television constantly replays the opening ceremonies, interspersed with special interviews with stylists, the Gamemakers, and the Capitale's fashionable upper crust. Everyone has an opinion, and no one can stop talking about the tributes. Cosette Fauchelevent had looked like a nymph: otherworldly, hauntingly beautiful, and ready to drag you down into the depths of the sea with her.

   Suddenly, Grantaire lunges out of his seat in their living room in Quartier 12's part of the Training Centre. He grabs the remote control, and turns the volume all the way up. Combeferre looks up distractedly, and Éponine wanders closer to the screen to see, her mouth tight with suppressed feelings.

   It's their chariot ride from earlier, and this time the camera is exclusively on them. "What's the pin for, do you think?" an anchor is asking her partner in the voiceover commentary.

   "Not sure, but it's an interesting choice. Mockingjays. Song birds. Or it could just be a token from home."

   The camera is lingering overly long on the fact that Éponine's hand is clenched tightly in Combeferre's, like a Gordian Knot that nothing can break apart. They burst into flames, but still don't let go.

   "Do you think he gave that pin to her?" asks the anchor, and there's a speculative laugh.

   It takes Éponine a minute to realise that the laughter wasn't from the screen, but from Grantaire, who is looking at them with a gleam in his eye. The bottle hovers inches from his lips, but he's looking right at Éponine. She flushes, and tries to forget Combeferre is there.

   "He didn't, if that's what you're asking. I don't see how it's your business anyway."

   Grantaire snorts, and takes a long, calming swig. "Because, princess, that's a good angle. Doomed lovers being sent into the arena? The Capitale will lap it up. The sponsors will love you."

   She gives him a cold, filthy look. "He and I are nothing," she says as if Combeferre can't hear. "And I'm not going to learn lines and act a part like this is a movie we're walking into."

   "Éponine—" starts Combeferre, and his voice is low and solid, like a rock. She isn't looking for solid right now; she wants someone who will back her up, someone who'll see exactly how twisted and sickening Grantaire's line of thinking is.

   "Got a better option?" asks Grantaire, smirking mirthlessly at her. "You aren't Valjean's daughter, and that big boy from Quartier 11 might be able to snap you like a twig."

   "I thought you were our mentor," she snarls, stepping right up to him. She would have smacked the bottle out of his hand, if his fingers weren't wrapped around it in a death grip. "Mentors tell us _strategies_ about what we should do to last in the arena. Not this crap about pretences and doomed lovers."

   Grantaire rises to his feet, sinuously uncurling himself, and the two inches he has on her suddenly looks more intimidating. His eyes are bloodshot and his mouth pressed, he looks like a mad drunk, filled with pent-up bitterness. He says, slowly and clearly enunciating each word, as if to make it easier for the walls to hear:

   "Who's pretending, princess?"


End file.
